


I'll be Your Strength

by Zoejoy24



Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Gen, King Martin, Knight Gil, Malcolm Bright Whump, Pre-Slash, Prince Malcolm, Protective Gil Arroyo, Punishment, Whipping, Whump, Whumptober 2020, martin is a bad father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: Prince Malcolm thought his father would respect his opinion, and listen to his arguments. He was wrong, and now he has to pay the price.Written for Whumptober Prompt No 31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE -- Whipping
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947349
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	I'll be Your Strength

**Author's Note:**

> This is once again set in the world of my medieval AU, [To Serve a Heart of Sovereignty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135398)

Martin watches, a mask of stony indifference plastered on his face, as his only son is led to the whipping post, as he strips off his own shirt, handing it off to that damned knight who refused to leave his side, even for this, as the manacles are fastened around his wrists and braces himself, widening his stance and squaring his shoulders.

This is for Malcolm’s own good. His, and the countries. He’s grown into such a strong, brave young man, but he lacks discipline. Respect. He forgets that _Martin_ is King, and that even though he’s the crown prince, for now he’s just a vassal, a tool for Martin to wield as he sees fit, for the good of his rule, of the kingdom.

The knight’s master at arms arrives and takes his place behind Malcolm. Sir Gil says something to him—Martin’s too far away to make out the words—and the master at arms grimaces, and nods. The man had been understandably confused when Martin had passed down his sentence and then given him further instructions on how he wished Malcolm’s punishment to be carried out. But, _he_ knew his place and his duty to obey. Unlike Martin’s own son. Which is why they are all gathered here, now.

The master at arms is skilled in his trade, an expert with the whip. He knows how to hurt, but not injure. He knows how to leave just a few bleeding cuts—enough for a more permanent reminder, without destroying a man’s life. And, he knows how to bring a man to the brink of death, how to leave him broken and battered, beyond the realm of full recovery.

That is not what Martin wants for his boy. He’d been very specific in his instructions—pain, but no lasting injury. He’d prefer Malcolm walk away from this (metaphorically) without even a scar, if the master at arms can manage it. Martin doesn’t want to break his boy, to destroy his spirit. He’ll need that fire, that drive, when he’s king. Martin simply wants to bend it to _his_ will.

The master at arms takes up his stance, prepares his whip. Sir Gil goes to Malcolm, resting a hand on the nape of his neck as he speaks to the prince. The touch is overly familiar, entirely unbefitting of a knight and a prince. Martin thinks this little exercise will be a good lesson for both his boy, and the knight. A reminder to them both of who is in charge, and just what kind of power he has over them.

Malcolm is nodding, and Martin can’t see his face—turned as it is towards his knight—but he sees the way the boy steels himself, taking a deep breath as Sir Gil steps away.

Malcolm is such a brave boy, Martin thinks once again. Brave, and foolish. The master at arms turns to Martin, poised to make the first blow. Martin nods, and the punishment begins.

***

Malcolm is _seething_. He’s never felt such an impotent rage before in all his life as he does walking up to the whipping post. There isn’t much of a crowd, just those who had been present to witness his _insubordination_ , but he can feel the weight of their gazes on him. He’s frightened, and embarrassed, but mostly he’s just angry. Angry that his father had disregarded his opinion so flippantly, and had seen Malcolm’s arguments as a threat from an underling, and not the suggestions of an equal. And he’s furious that his father had ordered him to be publicly flogged as a punishment. It’s degrading, humiliating, and frightening. Not because he fears the pain, but because he fears how far his father is willing to go in order to demand obedience. He fears his father.

He doesn’t have any longer to dwell on that, now. Malcolm removes his own shirt, handing it off to Gil. Gil, loyal, _stupid_ Gil who had refused to stay behind, who had insisted on being there to support Malcolm, to witness his shame. The knight’s face is a mask of barely concealed fury. Malcolm knows that Gil is just as incensed and appalled by Martin’s actions as Malcolm is. But he’d warned his knight to be careful, to be _good_. He doesn’t want Martin going after Gil, next. He knows they’re treading on thin ice as it is. Gil takes the shirt, his fingers brushing against Malcolm’s; a promise, a reminder. _I’m here, I’m with you, I’m yours_.

Malcolm raises his arms and feels the cold iron fasten around his wrist. He settles himself in the restraints, ready.

He’s witnessed whippings before. He knows how it goes. He’s only set to receive 12 lashes. Men have broken from less. He refuses to be one of them.

There’s a commotion behind him, and Gil steps away to talk to someone. Malcolm can just barely make out his words. _If you hurt him anymore than necessary, if I think for a moment you’ve enjoyed this, that you’re doing anything more than just your duty, I’ll end you._ Ah. The master at arms, then. Malcolm’s heart fills with warmth at his knight’s warning. Ever his protector, as he has been since Malcolm was a boy. He doesn’t hear the master at arms response.

Gil returns to his side a moment later, dropping a large, warm hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck. He’s starting to shiver, the cool breeze coming off the ocean chilling his bared skin. And, the longer this takes, the more nervous he becomes. The shaking isn’t just from the cold. But, Gil’s touch against his skin is warm, a small balm of comfort in the face of what’s to come.

“Are you ready, sire?” he asks. “It’s time.”

Malcolm nods resolutely. “Yes. I want it over with.”

Gil gives him a weak smile, nodding in return.

“Is he here?” Malcolm asks, and he’s mortified at how young and frightened he suddenly sounds.

“He’s here. On your other side,” Gil replies. He doesn’t look, and neither does Malcolm.

He doesn’t want to see his father. He’s not going to beg or plead for forgiveness. He shouldn’t have to. But he needs to know he’d even bothered to attend, that he at least carse that much.

“Be strong, Malcolm. I’ll be here when it’s over,” Gil murmurs, then steps away.

There’s a pause, a moment of silence filled with only the sound of the waves crashing in the distance, the wind and the cry of the sea birds.

He hears the _woosh_ of the whip slicing through the air a split second before the first blow lands. Even if it had been enough time to brace himself, it would have done nothing to prepare him for the sharp, stinging line of fire that cuts across his back. He grinds his teeth together, tightens his hands around the chains at his wrists, and steels himself for the next blow.

The master at arms sets a steady, measured pace. During the first few blows, Malcolm is grateful. It gives him time to gather himself, to try to breathe through the pain, to push down the cries and whimpers that are trying so hard to work themselves free. But after the fourth blow—just a third of the way through, and oh _god_ he can’t do this—he’s desperate for it to just be over. He’s shaking so hard the chains are rattling. His whole back feels as if it’s ablaze, the four lashes spread across his shoulders and the center of his back, and he knows that soon they’ll be overlapping, that the pain will be multiplied as blow lands on blow and _he can’t, he can’t, he can’t._ A fifth blow lands, and a muffled sob escapes his lips. He sucks in a ragged breath and grits his teeth harder. He won’t break, not this soon, not so easily, he—the sixth blow lands and he nearly bites through his tongue to keep from crying out. He can taste blood in his mouth but that pain is nothing compared to the blaze of agony across his back. Halfway there. Nearly done. He won’t let himself be weak, he won’t—the seventh blow falls, and his legs give out, but he doesn’t make a sound.

The stretch of his skin as he sags in the chains, hanging from his wrists intensifies the pain and brings tears to his eyes at last. He doesn’t try to stop them, but he does scramble to find his feet once more, before the next blow comes. He manages too, but barely, slumping against the pole to hold himself up as the eighth lash strikes diagonally across his back, from shoulder to opposite hip, and he cries out.

He hears Gil snarl beside him in rage, and he forces himself to breathe. It _hurts_ , the expansion of his lungs stretch the skin and the sore muscles underneath, but he has to control himself. _Weak_ , he berates himself. _You’re being weak, twelve lashes is nothing, you’re soft, you_ —

The ninth blow lands, and tears begin to run down his cheeks as he takes a shuddering, sobbing breath. Oh god it hurts, it _hurts_. He refuses to cry out.

The tenth and the eleventh blow fall quickly, a final mercy, and while the suddenness of the blows and the agony as they strike in the same place, one after the other, drive the breath from his lungs and leave him gasping and shaking, he’s grateful because there’s just one more left.

The twelve and final blow lands, and he screams. He screams his agony, his rage, his fear into the air, letting it all out, then slumping forward against the post, sagging in his bounds, utterly spent. He moans as the weight of his body pulls against his aching back, but he doesn’t have the strength to lift himself.

Then, there’s a body beside his, hands at his wrists, releasing the shackles, guiding him slowly down to the ground.

He slides to his knees, and Gil is there, kneeling beside him, holding him upright with a gentle hand wrapped around his bicep. Malcolm nearly slumps forward, swaying dangerously in Gil’s grip as wave after wave of pain wash over him with each beat of his heart and every stuttered, agonized breath. Gil cups his face, lifts his head, helps to steady him.

“Malcolm? My lord, _Malcolm_!”

Malcolm lifts his gaze and finds Gil’s warm brown eyes staring down at him, filled with pain and worry.

“Gil,” he whimpers. He tries to be strong, tries to smile.

“I’m here. You’re done. You’re all right,” Gil assures him. “You’ll have some nasty bruising, you’ll be sore. One of the welts may scab and scar a little. But you’ll be all right.”

“God, it _hurts_ ,” Malcolm groans. He’s grateful for Gil’s frank assessment of his injuries, grateful that his knight knows him so well, knows that he needs to know the truth of the matter, and not to be coddled, even as he shakes and whimpers in pain.

“I know, my lord. I know. I’ve got you.”

Malcolm reaches out with a trembling hand, bracing himself on Gil’s shoulder, ready to try to stand, when a shadow falls over them both.

He looks up from where he’s kneeling, slumped against his knight, and has never felt so small, so _weak,_ as he sees his father staring down at them. Gil’s grip tightens on his arm, pulling him closer just slightly, squaring his shoulders as he faces down a potential threat to his prince.

“ _Gil_ ,” Malcolm whispers, squeezing his shoulder in warning.

Martin’s arms are crossed over his chest, his face void of emotion as he takes in the display.

“You took your punishment well, my boy. I’m proud of you. I love you, Malcolm. I hope you know that, that I did this for you.”

Malcolm nods, once, tears springing to his eyes once more at his father’s words, and then he drops his gaze. Tears, because he knows what kind of man his father is. He knows the words are empty lies. Manipulations. His father only loves himself, and his power. But Malcolm doesn't have the strength to be defiant. The lesson he learned today was that he was foolish to think his father cared for him, respected him. To his father, he must appear only as the loyal, obedient son. He can’t afford to trust his father a second time.

Martin stalks off without another word, and Malcolm sags against Gil, what little remaining strength he had left, gone.

“Help me,” he whimpers. “I can’t be strong anymore, Gil.”

“Oh, _Malcolm_. That’s all right. That’s why I’m here. I’ll be your strength for now, for whenever you need be to be,” Gil assures him.

Standing is hell, each step agony, but they slowly make their way to the castle and Malcolm’s chambers. He collapses into his bed, face first, less carefully than he should, and his back erupts in white-hot fire. He doesn’t hold back on his cry of pain, no longer caring about being strong.

“Oh, god. _Damn_ , that hurts,” he gasps, shuddering as the pain licks back and forth across his skin.

“Try to sleep, Malcolm. I’ve some balm for the bruising and welts, but it will hurt going on. Here, drink this, it will help.”

Gil lifts the glass of watered down wine to his lips, helps him drink even though the position is awkward and it feels like most of it ends up trickling down his chin to the sheets. Malcolm doesn’t care. He’s exhausted. He’s beat. _But not broken_ , a voice whispers in his head. _He didn’t break you, he never will._

Malcolm’s eyes fall closed, and he listens to the soft sounds of Gil moving about his room, watching over him, and he finally falls into blissful slumber.


End file.
